There's Hope For Us Yet
by velja
Summary: Sherlock gets to put the famous shock!blanket on someone else. And John finally gets what he has deserved for a long time: a genuine praise from the master of deduction. Propmt fic. My first Sherlock story. Canon, possibly pre-slash. One-shot.


**There's Hope For Us Yet**

_My first Sherlock fic ever, written for the following prompt at sherlockbbc_fic: Sherlock being the one to put the shock!blanket on someone._

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><p>Sherlock is fast.<p>

Usually when it's needed, Sherlock is fast enough. He always has been. Both mentally (he **is** the genius that invented its own job and is the best at it after all) and physically, thanks to his long legs.

This time it turns out he isn't fast enough.

Sherlock is chasing this week's culprit across London, has done so for almost three hours, and his brilliant mind is throwing out data for the most effective route to get to wherever it is he needs to be.

Problem is, Sherlock doesn't know where that is (yet). That's why his eyes fly to the phone in his hand every two seconds, willing it to beep with news from John.

When the news finally come ("St. Etheldreda. Hurry. JW") Sherlock allows himself a split second to berate both the killer's small brain and his own off-game-performance (because it's so obvious now that he wonders how he's missed it) before he sprints from rooftop to rooftop towards Hatton Garden.

This split second turns out to be one second too much because when Sherlock jumps down a building to land in Leather Lane a tale-telling gunshot rips through the air.

He legs it and rounds the corner just in time to almost be run down by the approaching police car. Sherlock jumps out of the way but he loses his balance and crashes onto the pavement. He quickly scrambles back to his feet but then takes his time dusting off his coat. No need to hurry up now, is there? Not when it was Lestrade's face gaping at him through the windshield right before he hit the concrete.

It looks like this time Lestrade actually beat Sherlock in figuring things out, and for a brief second that bothers him more than anything. The throbbing pain in his right leg pales in comparison to the disappointment Sherlock feels. But then his brain kicks in and he deduces that Lestrade must have had access to data he in turn hasn't been prone to. Otherwise the inspector's mediocre brain would never have come up with the location of the killer's hide-out before him and John.

"Ah, that's it," Sherlock exclaims when his brain connects the dots. "John!"

Sherlock reaches Ely Place and immediately scans the scene. The police car next to the church's entrance gives off the familiar flickering light that changes the faces of the small crowd into eerie blue masks. Sergeant Donovan resembles a pale ghost sprung right out of a horror film with how she glares his way.

Sherlock deletes this information right away again, his eyes locking onto John standing off-side with Inspector Lestrade. He crosses the distance in determined strides, completely ignoring the two officers that handcuff the killer and box him into the car.

Sherlock doesn't need to look at the killer. He's not important, now that the chase is over. He doesn't make the slightest blip on Sherlock's radar anymore, now that his focus is on the newest problem at hand.

"John," Sherlock addresses his friend matter-of-factly. "Come on, let's go."

John has the audacity to throw a quick look at Lestrade before he makes a move.

"Now, John," Sherlock clarifies and turns without looking back. He's taken two steps already when Lestrade calls out.

"Now, wait a minute. You can't just stride off like that."

"Can't I?" Sherlock's eyebrow rises and Lestrade knows exactly what it means. _'You should know me better than that. Of course I can.'_

"No," Lestrade shakes his head and nods towards John. "Two seconds ago he traded gunshots with a serial killer, now you can't just whisk him away like that. I need his statement. Besides, he could have been hurt. Sherlock, you don't even…?"

Lestrade lets out an exasperated sigh when he sees the look on Sherlock's face. "You don't care at all, do you? Damn it, Sherlock, he could have been shot for all you know, and you don't even want to wait for the ambulance?"

John opens his mouth, probably to state that he's had it with being treated like he's not standing right there with them, and also to clarify that he's fine, thank you very much. But Sherlock with his quick brain and even quicker mouth beats him to it.

"You're overlooking a few things, as always, Inspector, and the facts you **did** manage to pick up on, you naturally got them all wrong." Sherlock shifts to his full height and starts pulling things off his fingers:

"He didn't trade gunshots with a serial killer. There was only one shot fired, no more. And even your brain must realize that by the sound of it, it didn't come from the rifle your officers just took from the killer's hands. Thus, it was John that fired his gun and, although he does show a certain tendency to stumble into life-threatening situations that are way over his head, he's proven on more than one occasion that he knows how to handle a gun. Therefore I think it's safe to say that he didn't shoot himself. And even if, against all logic, he managed to hurt himself while aiming for the killer, well, then I'd say he deserves the pain for being exceptionally stupid. But he's not hurt, as you can clearly see, because he's standing right here, open-mouthed, glaring daggers at me like he's angry and yet fascinated by the obvious brilliancy of my deduction."

Sherlock takes a breath and his face twists into one of his trademark smirks. "So, all is well. You got your killer and I need to speak to John about priorities. And since he's obviously in no need for medical attention I'm going to do that now rather than later."

Lestrade, who should by now be well-acquainted with Sherlock's antics, still seems flabbergasted and grasps onto his last straw by stating: "He could be in shock!"

"Oh no, not that again," Sherlock mutters under his breath. He rolls his eyes heavenwards and without another word strides up to the conveniently just arrived ambulance. The rear doors haven't fully opened yet when Sherlock is there, prying something from the confused paramedic's hands.

"I'll take that," he turns back in one swift motion. John and Lestrade watch him open-mouthed.

"There, look," Sherlock drapes the warm red object over John's shoulders from behind and glares at Lestrade. "He's got a blanket. Now, can we go? Thank you."

Not waiting for an answer he steers John away by his shoulders and John stumbles along, too distracted by the feel of Sherlock's strong yet gentle grip on him to protest. The blanket's ends trail down his chest and he grabs them, pulling the soft fabric closer around his form. He hears Lestrade calling out after them and tries to throw an apologetic look back, but all he can see is Sherlock's tall form right behind him, blocking his view.

They round a corner and John expects Sherlock to let go of his shoulders but the detective goes on in unusual silence, walking him past several buildings until they reach the next corner.

"Sherlock," John tries to get his friend's attention. "You can let go of me now. I'm fine."

"I know," Sherlock doesn't stop and although John can't see his face he knows by the terse tone of his voice that something's off. Something's bothering Sherlock.

"Sherlock, stop!" John twists out of the taller man's grasp and spins around to look at his face. That's when he gets it. "You're mad," he states and it isn't a question. He knows the look in Sherlock's eyes, has seen it often enough, though seldom directed at him.

"Don't be stupid, John. If I was mad I wouldn't have taken the time to take care of you, would I?" Sherlock's mouth twists upwards in a small smile but the look in his eyes remains.

John raises an eyebrow. "Take care of me?"

"Yes, John. I know that you weren't hurt in the slightest and I still got you a blanket. For the shock that you're clearly not in. And I got you away from Lestrade's stupid and boring questions. That's taking care of you."

"Only in your bizarre world," John mutters, trying to see how a threadbare blanket is supposed to help counteract symptoms of shock. He fails to see the connection and instead concentrates on the obvious. "You're still mad."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you're mad that despite your brilliant-as-usual deductions it was me that caught the killer this time."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock huffs. "And besides, you didn't catch him, Lestrade and his team did. And only because you helped them cheat."

"Cheat?" John frowns confused.

"Cheat, John," Sherlock nods. "You obviously informed Lestrade before you texted me where you were! That's why the police managed to beat me here!"

"Oh, you figured that out, did you?" John looks chagrinned. Sherlock sends him a look that states 'Oh, please!' like nothing else. He even smiles a little. But then chides: "You need to set your priorities straight, John. You have to let me know where you are first, how else can I prevent you from doing something stupid like getting yourself killed?"

John seems to be affronted by this. "I managed to do just fine before you came along, thank you. I survived a war, you know. I don't need you to baby-sit me."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Sherlock avoids John's eyes and looks to the side instead. He's visibly uncomfortable all of a sudden, and John realizes instantly that this is Sherlock's way of expressing concern for him.

Not a terribly nice way of showing he cares but, John chuckles inwardly, he'll take what he can get. It's more than he's used to.

"Okay, I get it," John states softly and pulls the blanket closer around his shoulders. The blanket Sherlock fetched for him. "First priority from now on: you."

Sherlock looks back at him with a surprised smile. His hands come up and, standing right in front of John, his slender fingers bunch up the blanket's edges for a second, unconsciously pulling John closer.

"Good. Make sure to remember it."

"I will," John smiles up into Sherlock's face inches away from his.

"Speaking of priorities," Sherlock suddenly exclaims and lets go of John. "You need to work on your aim."

"My aim?" John is used to Sherlock's weird leaps in thought but this now is a bit much, even for him. "I fail to see… what the heck are you talking about now?"

"Your aim, John. Earlier you obviously tried to shoot the killer and yet he wasn't dead or even injured when the police stuffed him into the car. Your aim must have been way off then."

"I still don't see how that's related to my priorities…"

Sherlock waves him off. "Irrelevant. You tried to shoot him and missed, John, that's the point."

"I didn't miss."

Sherlock tilts his head and eyes John with something that, in any other person, would be called pity. In Sherlock's eyes it looks just plain wrong.

"I didn't miss," John repeats more determined. "I had him cornered in the church but he hid behind the statues of the Martyrs. I knew that I couldn't get a clear shot at him without hitting the statues and you know what they're worth, so I had to come up with something else."

Sherlock's eyes light up, he is intrigued at once. "What did you aim for, John? What did you hit him with? No, don't say it, it was… it has to have been something…"

A small smile creeps onto John's face, half embarrassment and half pride. "It was a candle."

Sherlock's lips twitch, too. "A candle." He doesn't phrase it as a question but John can see that his friend needs more data to process the thought properly.

"It was a really big candle. One of these Easter things that are supposed to symbolize… whatever. It stood on one of these massive gold racks and, well… I thought that if I'd be able to shoot it at just the right angle it would explode and the gold rack would fall right onto where the killer stood and would take him down." John shrugs casually. "It did."

"John, that was…" Sherlock stops and for a second looks as if he's not going to continue. But John knows his friend better than that. He waits, expectantly, and when seconds pass and Sherlock simply starts walking along the pavement John hurries to catch up and nudge his side.

"Come on, Sherlock. Say it."

"That was good thinking, John. There's hope for you yet." Sherlock sends him a grin and hopes that's enough but John will have none of that.

"Sherlock," he prods.

"Alright, I give. That, Dr. Watson, was brilliant!"

"Ha," John exclaims with a skip in his step, very pleased with the praise. Of course Sherlock, ever the sociopath, then adds: "I think I'm beginning to rub off on you. Finally."

"Better late than never," John chuckles and takes Sherlock's hand. Sherlock throws a long and curious glance at their joined hands but doesn't pull away. Not until they've reached 221B Baker Street and he has to reach into the pocket of his coat to juggle out the keys.

'There's hope for the both of us yet,' John thinks and follows Sherlock inside.

**The End**

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><p><em>Please let me know what you think of this.<em>**  
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